We are Relative (or The Hipster Touch)
by Vendelyn Silverhawk
Summary: Modern Winter Soldier AU, Steve and Bucky have finally gotten back from Afghanistan, but with a metal arm and a head of ghosts Bucky's transition back into normalcy is anything but smooth. Then S.H.I.E.L.D. intern Darcy Lewis gets a new mission; make James Barnes a real person again. Nat, Sam, and Steve enjoy the ensuing shenanigans. Slight Clintasha, bromance all around.


**A/N: This was written in response to this post from tumblr except I can't find who wrote it so if anyone knows, please tell me so I can credit them for inspiration!:** _hello this is a text post in support of bucky barnes: accidental hipster, who wears steve's huge plaid button-downs over natasha's too-tight jeans and a pair of old doc martens sam was going to donate to goodwill, because those are the clothes that are around and who gives a shit? bucky barnes: accidental hipster, who goes out in steve's plastic framed on-the-run glasses because he misses the eye protection his googles used to provide. bucky barnes: accidental hipster, who buys vinyl because he was born in 1917 and drinks his coffee black for the same reason. BUCKY BARNES: ACCIDENTAL HIPSTER. that's all thank you goodbye_

**Also, let it be known that I bear no ill will towards hipsters, this is meant for light-hearted humor, and as a mild hipster myself I don't meant to offend anyone. **

BSBSBSBSBS

"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another." ~ _Anais Nin_

_or_

"Sure enough, it's getting the hipster touch and being fully renovated into an amazing space!" ~ _Some Craigslist Real Estate Posting_

BSBSBSBSBS

It wasn't like he'd had much of a life before.

No real career, no aspirations, zip friends except Steve, really. He was the sum of his serial number, name, and rank. He was a blank slate for all the use he would be to these people.

The interrogator hit him again, hard enough to knock off his equilibrium and send his gaze spinning. As the ringing in his ears faded Bucky could hear faint cursing in another language.

"James Barnes," he said past a mouth filled with blood and spit. "3-2-2-5-7-9."

Throwing his hands in the air, the interrogator turned and stalked away, still muttering. Probably about how useless the prisoner was and how they should just shoot him already.

Bucky let his head droop, mulling over the burning in his right wrist where the ropes were rubbing his skin raw. Phantom pains traced up his left arm and Bucky tried not to think about the gaping hole he'd see if he looked over to where his arm used to meet his shoulder. There was still gauze packed over the wound that was bloody and old, but these people clearly had a vested interest in keeping him alive because they'd kept it from getting infected and had even changed the bandages once while he was too pain-wracked to fight back.

If he closed his eyes he could still see the explosion blowing across the caravan, feel his balance shift as the IED toppled his jeep over the side of the cliff-

No.

Don't you think about that. _Don't. _

If you're gonna die here, Barnes, that won't be your last memory.

An hour later three new men entered the small room and cut him from the chair. Bucky had to muffle a scream as one gripped just under his shoulder wound to drag him. They tossed him unceremoniously back into the cell that had been his home for the past two weeks and vanished down the dimly lit hall. Crawling into a corner, Bucky tried not to think about the pain in his shoulder or wrist, the exhaustion in his bones, or the cold beginning to creep into the stone cell as the desert night set in.

He tried to dream about Brooklyn, about the Commandos, about Steve.

When he finally fell asleep he was in his jeep again, falling, and someone was calling his name.

Screaming.

BSBSBSBSBS

"Bucky," someone called. It was far away, the voice, reaching him through a roaring sandstorm-

"Bucky!" With a jolt his eyes snapped open, heart going into overdrive as he pressed himself against a wall. His chest was rising and falling with breaths too heavy and loud against his ears but there was something else heavy pressing on his good shoulder- it was _loud_ but not like breathing, like bullets-

"It's me, Bucky. It's Steve," the voice said. Bucky blinked, swallowing down the panic that had accompanied his wake-up calls for the past three weeks. When his vision cleared there was a face hovering over his that was too frighteningly real to be a dream.

"Steve," he mumbled, and reached out to be sure. His hand met the fabric of Steve's uniform.

"Yeah," his friend said, hauling him to his feet. "It's really me, Bucky. Sorry it took so long, but we're getting you out."

_We._

There was a spray of gunfire from down the hall and someone shouting gleefully in French- _Dernier_. All the guys were there, the Commandos.

It was all Bucky could do to keep one foot in front of the other, but Steve kept an arm around Bucky's waist as they exited the cell and headed toward the light at the end of the hall.

BSBSBSBSBS

That was a year ago.

This was now.

BSBSBSBSBS

"One java chip Frappuccino, extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce," a female voice said politely. Bucky had his back to the door of the store, but he didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"This isn't a coffee shop, Nat," he grumbled, turning to face the short red-head leaning against the glass that kept customers from breathing on the baked goods.

"Really?" she blinked innocently. "Because I thought only coffee shop hipsters dressed that way."

Bucky scowled.

"Buy something or leave," he said, crossing his arms. There was still a bit of flour on the metal fingers of his prosthetic.

"Sheesh, fine," Natasha said, holding up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Three éclairs, a tiger tail, two red velvet cupcakes, and a slice of the key lime pie you just made."

Bucky's eyebrows rose but he went to get her order anyway, filling two small white bakery boxes and setting them on the counter by the register. Natasha handed him her card.

"Who's the feast for?" he asked. She grabbed the boxes.

"Us."

"Nat, I'm working-"

"This place has been empty for hours. Come on, Barnes- I'm bored, and I just bought you sugar," she griped. He sighed in defeat and pulled off his white apron, revealing the plaid button-up and dark skinny jeans that Natasha had mocked earlier.

They settled into a window table and Natasha started tearing apart the tiger tail.

"Seriously, you look good in hipster garb. I'm jealous," Natasha narrowed her eyes at him and he took one of the éclairs, biting in half-heartedly. "I can't pull off plaid. Or black glasses."

"Yeah, and I bet you'd look just terrible," Bucky snorted. Natasha's mouth quirked up. Dressed as she was in leggings and a floral dress, she could have knocked anyone flat on their back literally and figuratively, and Bucky had no doubt that if she wanted to dress like a coffee-shop aficionado she would look just as stunning. And dangerous.

"Where are you getting this stuff?" she asked, and he could see her green eyes looking him over carefully, from the doc martins to the thick black-framed glasses over his blue eyes. "Have you been raiding Good Will? I don't know where this came from and it's making me uncomfortable."

Bucky laughed- Natasha was in intelligence. _Anything_ she didn't know made her uncomfortable.

"Uh, the shoes are Sam's, he was getting rid of them," Bucky shrugged. "The shirt-"

"Is Steve's," Natasha said. Bucky just shrugged again, and took another bite of éclair so he didn't have to talk.

"That's cute, you're wearing your boyfriend's clothes now," she said, grinning. Bucky choked. "I know, I know- you don't swing that way, Steve has a girlfriend, don't hurt yourself trying to talk."

"I crashed at Steve's with no clean clothes," he rasped, and Natasha laughed.

"Can we _not_ talk about my clothes?" he asked. Natasha took a thoughtful bite of cupcake.

"Fine, but one more question- who introduced you to skinny jeans and why do they hate the entire female population of New York so much?"

BSBSBSBSBS

As a matter of fact, it had been Darcy Lewis, a S.H.I.E.L.D. intern apparently assigned to Steve and Bucky, who had been getting all his clothes. After he and Steve got out for good, Bucky with the promise of never having to go back to fight for his country again and Steve with several new medals, they'd been contacted by S.H.I.E.L.D., an international intelligence agency who'd sometimes given the Howling Commandos intel for missions. S.H.I.E.L.D. had wanted them to become field agents, but Bucky had had enough of war, even if S.H.I.E.L.D. had gotten Tony Stark himself to build Bucky a one of a kind advanced prosthetic metal arm that, on good days, almost felt real. Steve had said no, too, even though a few of the other Commandos had agreed to the offer and were now in the service. Bucky was sure Steve's bleeding heart wouldn't let him ignore another call to help people, but Steve had enrolled in art classes again and had his own place and had even made a new friend; Sam Wilson from the VA. As for Bucky… life went on, and it didn't feel like it.

He knew his arm was a subtle bribe- "We could use a man of your talents," Nick Fury said the week after he'd gotten home from Afghanistan, after almost a month of torture and interrogation by a terrorist group after the famous Captain Rogers and his team. Bucky had politely told him to fuck off.

The next day there had been a bright-eyed S.H.I.E.L.D. intern at the door of his ratty apartment waving a credit card and saying she was his official "person." Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. was keeping tabs on its potential investments and because Bucky had a reputation- and because he'd refused to see a therapist- they had decided he needed a babysitter instead. Darcy described her job as "Doing anything and everything you don't want to. Basically, I'm enabling you to be as much of a hermit as you want to be while you readjust to civilian life." That had gotten a door slammed in her face.

The next morning at seven o'clock on the dot she was back with coffee and he'd been too tired to start a cat-and-mouse game with an over-eager 19-year-old. He may have only been five years older than her, but war had given him eternity in a span of years and he felt like he should be in a retirement home instead of showing his "person" around his apartment.

It was small because the one S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him was too big, and held only a mattress, a couch, a TV he never used, and a small kitchen with a fold-out table. The minimal furnishings, along with walls the color of the desert, lent it an air of neglect. Darcy looked like she wanted to cry.

"OK, look, I don't have much experience with ex-POWs," she said as she dumped her purse on the table. "But living like this _cannot_ be healthy. First thing on the rapidly growing list of Things To Do To Help Sergeant Barnes Re-Join The Real World: furniture shopping."

Which meant, of course, _she_ went furniture shopping while Bucky was over at Steve's, his afternoon activity of choice.

His best friend had had an easier time falling back into the swing of things, and his place was tastefully old-fashioned with pale walls, bookshelves, and even a record player. He had a studio, too; Bucky had no words to describe how it felt to see Steve drawing again. War had made him sad, and solemn, and when they ran together it was like a marathon to escape the ghosts that dogged their heels. But nowadays Steve let the sunlight in and the charcoal sketches of naked models from his classes, paintings of the park, were each milestones in Steve's journey back to himself. The skinny kid from Brooklyn who had always held a pencil better than a gun.

Bucky lounged on the couch playing Mario Kart with Sam while Steve sketched them, afternoon light slanting through the windows. Unlike Bucky's boxed-in apartment, Steve's was right by Central Park, with a nice view of the greenery.

"So, Darcy came by today?" Steve asked, not looking up from his sketch. His comment startled Bucky so much that he went off the edge of rainbow road. Sam fist-pumped in triumph.

"That's three for three, man. You are _terrible_ at this!" the darker man said as Bucky flung down his controller.

"Isn't there a 'positive reinforcement' aspect to readjusting to civilian life?" Bucky mumbled. Sam laughed.

"You said you didn't want therapy. Besides, part of the process is not coddling said new civilian," Sam said. He threw an arm over the back of the couch and reclined with the kind of ease that Bucky didn't think he'd ever master. Sometimes he forgot that Sam had once been in combat, too. Had lost people.

"How did you know about Darcy?" Bucky asked, ignoring Sam. Steve smiled but still didn't look up.

"She came by yesterday after you locked her out," Steve chuckled. "S.H.I.E.L.D. technically assigned her to both of us. Want to keep their investments in working order." There was a wry twist to his mouth now, but he didn't sound bitter. Just resigned. Again Bucky felt some tension in his chest abate- Steve was still saying no. They weren't going back to war. Steve could swear up and down that it was Bucky's choice, but it wasn't a secret that where Steve went Bucky followed, even if his growth spurt had erased the skinny asthmatic who'd gotten in one too many fights when they were children.

"She said you were being difficult," Steve continued, and Bucky groaned.

"I don't need a 'person,'" Bucky said. "I don't know what to do with her- she can't hover all the time!"

"She's obviously not hovering now," Sam pointed out, and Bucky shot him a look.

"She's out buying furniture."

"What?" This time Steve's pencil stopped and he looked up, blue eyes bright with shock.

"Evidently my apartment was 'sad' and she decided to use S.H.I.E.L.D.'s credit card to do an extreme home makeover. I didn't ask."

Sam was grinning, but Steve frowned slightly.

"Are you still living in that broom cupboard?" he asked. Bucky's silence was answer enough, and he let his head fall back on the couch and his eyes slip shut. "You know you could just stay here, Buck," Steve said gently. "It'd be just like the old days- there's plenty of room and-"

"I'm fine where I am, Steve," Bucky snapped, and instantly regretted it. But his chest was tight again and there was a burning smell coming from the hot dog stand that always parked below the window. His metal fingers clenched as his teeth ground together.

"What, fine with your _mattress_?" Steve said, voice hard. "In the middle of the old district?"

"I said I'm _fine_!" Bucky said, and realized one tense heartbeat later that he was yelling. Steve's face was like stone but his eyes were gentle and Sam was suddenly standing.

"Woah, come on guys," he said. "Let's just calm down. Nobody's attacking you, Bucky."

"Sure feels like it," he muttered, trying not to give in to the urge to rip out the couch stuffing. "You don't need to treat me like a kid all the time, Steve. I'm here, I'm breathing."

"But that's not living," Steve said.

"We're just trying to help," Sam murmured, lowering himself back down although the tension in the air was still palpable. "It isn't weakness to admit you need help."

"I _don't need _help," Bucky gritted out, and Steve's iron expression was back, lips in a thin line, jaw set and blue eyes consumed with worry.

"When was the last time you ate, then?" Steve asked before Sam could do anything. Bucky's mouth opened, then closed. He hadn't had anything to eat or drink in over forty-eight hours, truth be told. "And you've been wearing that shirt for three days, Bucky. Keep telling me you're fine- one of these days I might actually believe it."

"Oh like you're so well-adjusted!" Bucky exploded, rising to his feet with panic and fury rolling off of him in waves, like he was a cornered animal, back in Afghanistan begging his jeep to swerve and avoid the IED, the terrorists to just kill him _please just put a bullet in my brain already_- "Like you don't have nightmares, like half of the things you draw aren't the faces of the people we've killed, that you didn't panic when people set off fireworks on the 4th!"

He was breathing heavily and Steve hadn't moved, just put his sketchbook down slowly. Sam was hovering just behind him, arms outstretched to intervene if necessary but keeping his distance. Fights like this were rare for Steve and Bucky, but it was a familiar struggle for many returning soldiers. Bucky knew he shouldn't be mad but he couldn't stand dwelling on how much he was falling apart, how much just talking to Darcy had drained and set him on edge. Staying in his apartment meant no people, no chances of losing it in public or being over-stimulated, having to look like an idiot because the Starbuck's coffee grinder sounded like gunfire.

"I'm going home," he said stiffly, swinging toward the apartment door. Sam didn't try to stop him. Steve rose and looked like he wanted to.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The next few days were a mix of overstimulation and crippling self-doubt as Darcy turned his life upside down, and he resisted the urge to call Steve each time the intern returned with a new piece of furniture. By day three he had an actual bed- platform and low to the ground, almost like the caves they used to sleep in on assignment, and a new mattress, a bedside table and lights in every room. The next day saw a new plasma TV and wrap-around couch of sleek black faux-leather, a low coffee table, bookshelves, a painting of a snowy landscape because Darcy found it "calming" and a complete kitchen makeover. The end result was a totally modern apartment that actually looked nice, like a sophisticated, well-organized person lived there, someone who drank fitness shakes and watched the cooking channel and probably drank expensive wine if they drank at all.

Needless to say, he was more than a little overwhelmed to return to his apartment- Darcy forced him to go spend the day "moping around central park" so the movers could do their thing- and all of that, plus a treadmill and new x-box.

He collapsed on the new couch and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to re-orient himself. He'd had his apartment for five months and had grown used to the subtle aura of decay, but now he felt the pressure to match his surroundings and realized that the pieces of him were scattered in more places than even he had originally thought. Blissfully unaware of her charge's mounting panic, Darcy sat on the coffee table and continued talking.

"This is really just the first step, though. We still need to paint, and talk about getting you a job. Those are important to recovery, so I've been told. And maybe some sort of means of transportation because your shoes are pathetic. Also food- the new kitchen's nice, right? But you can't eat ramen and frozen pizza forever so I'm thinking a trip to the grocery store is in order. _Oh_! Also your wardrobe, because sweatpants and old PT clothes do not an outfit make." Bucky wondered when she was going to pause for air, and didn't realize for a full three seconds after he opened his eyes that she was staring at him. She blinked owlishly behind her glasses, large brown eyes wide. "I mean, if you're up for all that," she said at last. "I get that my job is to help you _not_ be a super-hermit for, like, ever, but I'm also supposed to be helping _you_. Tell me if this is too much, ok? I know I can get a little carried away, but you looked so sad and I figured a nicer house could help-"

"Darcy," Bucky said, and it was the first time he'd talked to her instead of stalking silently past or just walking away when she asked him something. "I… thanks. I like it. I think."

She beamed at him.

"Really? That's great! Wanna go look at paint colors today? I was thinking eggshell white but maybe soft grey for the bedroom, something simple-"

"But," Bucky raised a hand and- miracle of miracles- she paused. "Can we take things a bit slower? Maybe food first?"

She nodded, brown ponytail bobbing as she adjusted her wire-rim glasses. "You're really the boss here! Hey, Steve said you forget to eat. How long has it been? Because if you starve to death I'll definitely get fired and my grandma will never forgive me if I kill a national hero."

_National hero?_

What?

But Darcy was snapping her fingers and he shook his head slightly, brow furrowing as he looked at her.

"So, food, rough estimate."

"Uh…." He thought about it and realized with a sinking feeling that it had been another few days.

"I'll take that as a 'too long," Darcy said as she rose. "Grab your coat, Serge. The wonder of the farmer's market beckons."

BSBSBSBSBS

Bucky liked the farmer's market, and that was a rare enough thing these days that he actually ate after they browsed for a while, Darcy loading the basket with ridiculously healthy items and occasionally passing him things they'd paid for. Two apples, a bottle of water, and a pre-made ham-and-sprout sandwich later and Bucky realized how much he missed food. How long had he been starving himself? It felt like years, but when Darcy flashed him the date on her phone he realized it had only been a few months. Not even a year since Steve and the Commandos had rescued him, since they'd gotten out.

And here he was, shopping like an almost-person who didn't need full-time interns to remind them how to breathe.

When they finally exited the bustling place there was a sleek black car waiting for them, and Bucky hesitated- he'd avoided cars since… well, _that_. He walked everywhere if he even went places. Darcy caught his look and faltered too.

"Is this ok?" she asked. "I figured it'd be easier since we have so many bags, and you looked like you were in a good mood."

Bucky swallowed past the dry lump in his throat.

"No, it- it's fine. I'm fine."

He slid into the back of the car and kept repeating that mantra all the way home. Then it stopped outside his building and the affirmation ceased to have meaning. He froze staring out the window, eyes riveted on the figure sitting on the building steps, red hair partially obscured by a grey and black hoodie.

"Serge?" Darcy asked, but Bucky was no longer listening. He was bursting out of the car and even though he wanted to run all he could do was sort of limp until he was right in front of her.

She looked up and smiled at him, but her first words were addressed to Darcy, who had followed Bucky out of the car.

"He looks good, Darcy," she said, green eyes looking him up and down, from his messy hair to the ratty boots that had literally been overseas and back. "Good job."

"Ah," Darcy looked like a deer in headlights but quickly composed herself in the face of the legendary Black Widow. "Thanks, Agent."

"This one is tough," Natasha told Bucky. "I hope you're listening to her."

"Well, she sort of remodeled my entire apartment, so I think it's too late not to," he said, still on edge, shoulders tense.

Natasha chuckled then, rose to her feet in a graceful move that took him back to the time between missions, after they'd first met and she said she was a dancer, on her off days.

"I'm going to kidnap James for a while, so you might as well go in, Darcy," she said. The intern nodded and grabbed their shopping bags, scurrying past Natasha and into the building. When she was gone, Natasha took a step forward.

"I heard about what happened. I'm sorry," she murmured. "I was on assignment in Budapest, breaking in a new partner. I should have come sooner."

Bucky met her gaze squarely but there was something funny in his stomach, like his body was finally realizing that it disagreed with food. Thankfully he didn't throw up on her, and instead he managed to take her offered hand. Her fingers squeezed his gently.

"Want to go get something to eat?" she asked. "I've been on an op for the past few weeks. Something other than field rations sounds nice."

Bucky managed to find his voice long enough to rasp "Sure" before she was dragging him down the sidewalk.

They ended up at a small Italian bistro, sharing a cheese pizza and coke with two straws. It felt normal, almost addictively so.

Natasha had worked only a few missions with the Commandos, but she had been their link to S.H.I.E.L.D. and a great deal of help when the military needed spies instead of soldiers. She had her secrets, of course, but everyone did, and her brand of humor had been welcome on long missions.

"How's the new partner?" Bucky asked, and Natasha smiled fondly.

"He's… different. Uses a bow and arrow, but he's efficient. I think we'll work well together. But the rest is sort of classified."

"'Sort of,'" Bucky echoed. There was something warm in his chest, something that told him he was safe in his own skin. Suddenly he missed Steve with a fierce ache. Natasha here only made him more aware of how alone he had been.

"Ok, _really_. Technically I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Then why are you?" he asked softly. In his mind they were still dancing, and he was not a prisoner of his memories of war.

"Because Steve called," she said, and Bucky leaned back against the booth with a heavy breath. "He's worried. And I'm worried. Plus, you still owe me a dance."

Bucky was tired of running, and he was so goddamn tired of hiding. She must have seen his look because she was suddenly calling for a waiter, and looked happier than he'd seen in a long time.

BSBSBSBS

That night she kissed him on the cheek and said if he ever wanted back in, there was an undercover op with the Russian ballet with both their names on it.

"What about your new partner?" he asked, still buzzing with energy. Natasha fingered the silver arrow necklace on her throat and gave him a knowing look.

"He's not the jealous type. Besides, he knows where he stands. Night, soldier."

"Night, Nat."

There were no nightmares. The next morning he called Steve and Darcy made omelets, and he felt alive.

BSBSBSBSBSBSBS

The following months were a mix of steps forward and leaps back, but Darcy was ruthless and as enthusiastic as a puppy when it came to reinventing Bucky's life. He had to admit that it wasn't terrible having her around all the time to keep him from brooding. He, Steve, and Sam started running together, and he invited them over to his new place. Steve kept asking him to move in, but it was almost a joke now, and they spent so much time at each other's places that there was little point.

He got a job at a bakery, but there was no teasing from Sam or Steve- both knew Bucky couldn't work with food to save his life- about him wearing an apron. Bucky could dance ballet- long story- and Steve could draw- natural talent- and Sam was addicted to flappy bird. They all had their quirks, and a job was such a big leap that Darcy even faked a smile trying his first attempt at scones. Steve, Sam, and Nat had all asked why he was still using poison if he was out of the business of killing people.

So, baking, and jobs, and the occasional dance when Darcy called Nat to tell her that Bucky was having a hard day or his favorite character in _Once Upon A Time_ (Charming) had gotten cursed again.

And then there was the infamous "hipster incident."

BSBSBSBSBS

It wasn't that he didn't have clothes- he _did_. He had his work apron, his workout clothes, his sweats, a few jeans and t-shirts and pair of ancient boots.

But evidently these were not enough, and Darcy never stopped bugging him about his wardrobe, even when he said he didn't want to go shopping.

So he continued to live with his pitiful pile of clothes and didn't really notice one day when his jeans were tighter than usual. If he happened to crash at Steve's house and need a more acceptable shirt for work, so what if he borrowed a plaid button-up from Steve, and took an old pair of docs that Sam was going to trash? The glasses were all him, recent and annoying for someone who relied on sight so much for what he did- used to do. A sniper was nothing without his eyes.

This altogether combined to create the "hipster" look that Nat chided him for that day she visited, after weeks away on assignment in Calcutta with her "partner."

He was long used to her impromptu disappearances and reappearances. Clothes interrogations? New.

"What are skinny jeans?" he asked, frowning, and Natasha's wry smile made him nervous.

"Oh, she's clever," she murmured.

"Who?"

"Darcy," Nat explained, grinning.

"Smart girl, she's been sneaking things into your wardrobe. Your jeans feel a little tight this morning?"

"Yeah, but-" Bucky stopped himself with a choked noise, looking down and then back up.

"Bless her," Nat said. "Now all of New York can admire the view."

That was the beginning.

Bucky wasn't overly concerned about his hipster clothing, or that Darcy was sneaking him jeans- he actually didn't mind the fit, but when he opened his closet the next morning and found all of his old clothes gone and replaced with new ones, he couldn't help but pause.

Then he blinked and decided he didn't have the energy to fight Darcy on this. Grabbing a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt and jacket, he threw them on and headed to Steve's.

"Hello, prince of darkness," Sam said when he opened the door. His eyebrows were raised as he took in the all-black ensemble and Bucky blew a strand of hair out of his face.

"That noticeable?"

"Uh, _yeah_," Sam said. Bucky just sighed.

"Darcy got rid of my other clothes."

Sam let out a low whistle but let Bucky in, following him down the entry hall to the living room.

"I'm starting to really like this girl."

The next few weeks might as well have been a blur for Bucky except that apparently new clothes were a big deal. Even though he was too tired to bother doing anything but throw on a leather jacket or grey button-up or a pair of overly-buckled black boots, it seemed to make a difference. Suddenly girls in flower crowns eyed him at bookstores and even guys who wore similar glasses and carried around Starbucks were staring. When Natasha suggested keeping his hair up if he wouldn't cut it, the attention just got worse and honestly he didn't know how to feel about it.

It was when said strangely-dressed, staring people started cropping up _everywhere_ that Bucky finally got concerned.

The girl in tall brown boots and an oversized flannel shirt took the box of tiger tails with a smile and clearly thought she was being smooth when she slipped him a card with her number on it between bills. Her look didn't falter when he ignored it. When she and her friend with feather earrings finally moved away Bucky breathed a sigh of relief.

"How old are they?" Nat asked, leaning against the side counter and looking at the girls in amusement. "Twenty-one tops, probably juniors at a local college."

"Too young," was all Bucky said, turning to shape a new batch of croissants. The perks of working at such a small place, he was the only one on duty and the policy was pretty much "Cook When Bored." Which was often.

"You're twenty-five, James. You could still be at school," she countered, and he grunted. "Come on, the blonde one's cute."

"_No_. Why are they here, anyway? Every time I'm in a bookstore or running hippie children keep staring."

"Hipsters, James, hipsters. It's because they want to suck you into their cult of Starbucks and alternative music," she smirked. He ignored her- she loved Starbucks. "You have to get out sometime."

"No I don't."

"_James_."

"_Natalia_."

Her mouth snapped shut and she glowered at him before blowing flour in his face. Sputtering, he was in the middle of trying to clear his eyes when there was a cough from the register. He turned and through his tears caught sight of a young man with turquoise hair, maroon skinny jeans, and a fitted hoodie.

"_No_," he growled, and the male hipster blinked in confusion behind his oversized glasses.

"I'm sorry-?"

"Just, no," he repeated, and it must have been with considerable menace because the boy backed up, going pale. He quickly scuttled out the door.

"Way to scare off a customer," Nat said, but there was a laugh in her voice.

"I'm done with people," Bucky said.

He closed the bakery early, and decided he had a bone to pick with Darcy.

Until he didn't, because it wasn't worth it. Because he was tired. Because when he looked in his hall mirror that night after months of studiously ignoring it- all the mirrors in his pre-Darcy apartment had been shattered and promptly scrapped- he liked looking at himself and seeing someone who looked like a whole person, instead of pieces held together by flimsy threads named Nat and Steve and Sam. And a bakery.

Also, he liked skinny jeans, and anyone who heard that would be dead before they could pass it on.

So Bucky the Hipster stayed.

BSBSBSBSBS

On the 4th of July he and Steve only freaked out once, in their separate ways, and Bucky stopped shaking long enough to enjoy the red and white and blue fireworks that lit up the night while Darcy handed out cupcakes.

When Steve came up and swung an arm around Bucky's shoulders, his entire body relaxed, the hulking blonde man flashing him a quick grin not without a hint of anxiety. They both still had a long way to go, but maybe, just maybe, they'd get there together.

Across from them Natasha smiled at him while her "partner" glowered, but Bucky knew it was just for show- the guy, Clint, was pretty cool, and understanding of Natasha' strange relationship with… relationships. By the small food table set up in the small park section they'd staked out for the festivities Sam was chatting with Darcy.

"Sketch anything good?" Bucky asked, looking over at Steve, who shrugged. His sketchbook was tucked under his arm, a pencil behind his ear, and Bucky recalled vivid images of him all throughout their lives hunched over paper with a concerned look on his face. The same expression each time, and tonight he'd managed to do it without his hands shaking while he drew from the shock of the fireworks. His face now made Bucky feel like he could run a marathon without looking back to see what was behind him.

"The usual, you know," Steve said. Bucky did. "The usual" was the war, but earlier he'd caught a flash of the curve of Darcy's glasses and Nat's languid body pressed up against Clint's when she thought that no one was looking- or didn't care that they were, rendered in Steve's fine black pencil strokes.

"How's it been, Buck?" Steve asked softly, arm tightening imperceptibly on his flesh and blood shoulder. It was plaid tonight, with black skinny jeans and his new boots and a messy bun, the glasses, old dogtags hanging around his throat because it seemed appropriate today of all days, a reminder that maybe his sacrifices weren't a waste.

"Pretty good," he murmured. Above them the sky was alight, and he was happy.

BSBSBSBSBS

**A/N: So… thoughts? As you can see I'm still pretty preoccupied with Bucky, and Cap, and Nat, and… everyone. I'd love to hear what you thought of it, liked/didn't like, etc. **

_Review!_


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